


There's No Avengers Discount In London

by Em6347



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Doctor Who Fusion (Minor), Civilians Being Awesome, Doctor Who References, Gen, Inspired By Tumblr, Londoner Being Awesome And Unflappable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 08:13:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10486242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Em6347/pseuds/Em6347
Summary: “Because I'm Hawkeye, in case you haven't noticed yet, undeniably the best looking and most loveable member of the Earth's Mightiest Heroes-”“That's debatable. So far, this has been pretty underwhelming.”A lightly concussed Clint Barton walks into a Starbucks in London, and has the gall to ask for a discount.





	

**Author's Note:**

> No offense to ukelele players or lovers of the pumpkin spice latté.
> 
> Or Americans.

“I, uh, I don't suppose I could get a special discount?”

Liv stares at him with her blankest, most intimidating face.

 “What do you mean a _‘discount’_?”

He stares back, completely unfazed.

 “An Avengers discount?”

For Liv, that explains a lot. It explains his scrapes, his empty sheaths, his ear piece. It even explains his _costume_ (and she'd had serious questions). But it still doesn't explain _how_ he possibly could've gotten the idea that being an Avenger means he’s entitled to a discount. At Starbucks. In London.

 “ _Best_ Avenger discount?” She arches a sceptical eyebrow. “Because I'm Hawkeye, in case you haven't noticed yet, undeniably the best looking and most loveable member of the Earth's Mightiest Heroes-”

 “That's debatable. So far, this has been pretty underwhelming.” He's silent for long enough that Liv starts to get genuinely worried he's planning some extravagant counter argument that’ll involve the grappling hook's reappearance; that thing has an unnecessary amount of sharp little barbs that cling to cheap plaster like brambles to a knit jumper, and coincidentally, it's solely responsible for the new gouge marks above the door that she's desperately hoping her manager won't notice.

He slowly raises a hand to his heart (the anatomically correct spot, she notes with great amusement) and adopts an adorably over exaggerated expression of mock-hurt.

 “ _What?_ ” He gasps, “How could you say such a thing? Who could possibly be more lovable than me?” Preening, he examines his reflection in the tip jar and ruffles his hair in an attempt to dislodge some of the soot that’d settled there. (Liv’s pointedly not asking.)

 “I don't know,” She leans on the counter, grinning teasingly, “I hear Dr Banner's a darling.”

He somehow executes an even more dramatic gasp.

 “Dr Banner? He’s- okay, yes, he is, totally a darling, but so am I!” Liv nods, as solemn as she can manage while suppressing slightly hysterical laughter.

 “Of course you are.”

 “Thank you.”

She’s having a _really_ weird day.

This guy had walked into _her_ Starbucks (and Liv has about as much pride in her job as she does in her brief stint as a ukulele player, but she’d still quite like to keep her measly paycheck, thank you very much) reeking of drains and rotting food - and at that point Chloe, the other girl on her shift, had promptly abandoned her for a smoke outside.

And _okay_ , he may not be her first customer to fit those criteria, but no one else had ever attempted to enter the shop by grappling hook, _or_ destroyed a ceiling light with the top end of a - dubiously legal, in her opinion - _bow and arrow_ , so…

 “Okay, you know I really can't give you a discount, right?”

 “But-”

 “Seriously.” He drops it, at least temporarily, but not without giving her a vaguely reproachful look. Liv throws up her hands in exasperation, “Just because some poor, star-stuck and easily manipulated soul in New York-”

 “And DC, Chicago, Dall-”

 “Or the _bloody_ _President himself_ , gave you money off your _pumpkin spice latté_ -” He looks embarrassed for the first time in their interaction, “-This is London, and love, we really couldn't care less about dodgy yank agencies and their disastrous, fumbling first-times with the rest of the universe. Have you _seen_ the kind of thing that goes on here? Did the rest of the world forget about Canary Wharf? Compared to _that_ debacle, your aliens were practically cuddly.”

He looks like he doesn't know which part of her rant to take issue with first, and so just settles on general consternation, making little aborted gestures and gasping and spluttering like a dirt-smudged, tattered fish out of water. It's adorable.

Liv gathers herself again, trying not to be charmed, and presses the ‘ _End Transaction_ ’ button on the till. It makes a little _ding_ sound that's inherently soothing. (It's one of the most enjoyable parts of her job, honestly.)

 “That'll be two quid.”

 “Yeah, about that…”

Liv’s not sure whether she's about to burst out laughing at his sheepish shuffling, or spontaneously combust from the shear combined stress of the day, when she suddenly notices he's started swaying like a flag on a breezy day, his pupils blown wide.

That's… not good.

 “Are you… alright?” He glances back to her from where he'd been staring, distracted by the little specks of rainbow light reflected by the machines. The tally of ‘Oh God _No_ ’ symptoms is really starting to add up.

 “I'm fine.” It's not very convincing.

 “Is there anything I can do?” He shakes his head and waves his hand in a way that she _thinks_ is supposed to be airy, but ends up just showcasing his complete lack of coordination. He's not really helping his case.

 “I just need the caffeine so I can make it to meet Na- to meet a friend.” Liv looks him up and down, thoroughly sceptical.

 “I'm sorry, but I'm ninety per cent sure that you shouldn't be drinking coffee in your state.”

 _Don't you dare conk out on me_ , she thinks. (She should have known better than to tempt Fate, who, by the way, seems to have all the impulse control of a window shopper on Oxford Street when it comes to her.)

He looks so stricken that she almost reconsiders, but then he teeters. For a long moment, she thinks he'll grab his stupid bow, heave himself up, take his stupid coffee - free of charge, if necessary - and be out of her shop and no longer tugging on her heartstrings, making her irrationally worried for a (likely problematic) stranger.

And then he collapses, right on her counter.

Liv thinks about calling an ambulance. But they’d eventually bring the police along with them. She's got a self-admitted super assassin passed out in ridiculous, purple-accented combat gear, and she just doesn't want to cause him the hassle. All she can think is that, actually, he probably _really_ needed that latté. With extra espresso shots and syrup.

A phone starts ringing.

She can see the outline of the lit screen through the material of his trouser pocket, but it takes her a few seconds to scramble ‘round the counter and fish it out. The caller ID says ‘Nat’. For lack of a better option, she answers the call.

 “Hello?” There's a beat of silence.

 “ _Who is this?_ ”

 “Liv.” It's an automatic answer. She's still too busy gazing balefully at the pile of bedraggled Avenger in front of her to consider the wisdom of giving out her name to a mysterious stranger. On a mysterious stranger's phone. Oh bloody…

 “ _Liv. How did you get this phone?_ ”

 “Do you happen to know a certain archer, 'bout 5’ 10’’, wears an absurd costume, goes by the even more absurd, yet strangely fitting, name of Hawkeye?” A longer pause.

 “ _...I do._ ”

 “Great. Can you carry him?”

And that's how Liv meets Natasha, aka Black Widow, who arrives at the shop ten minutes later wearing an equally tattered and equally ridiculous outfit, this time a _catsuit_ , that she's at least mostly covered with a long brown coat. Not that most Londoners would bat an eye, but it’s more about self-respect, in Liv’s opinion.

It turns out that, yes, Natasha _is_ capable of carrying the completely limp weight of Clint - not Hawkeye to friends and family, surprisingly - to the black car left running outside, while Liv scurries behind, struggling with Clint’s bow.

Natasha laughs when she sees how Liv’s resorted to carrying it: dragging it along behind her with two hands, like one of those contraptions young children use to ferry ‘round their toys.

 “You should probably tell him those scuff marks were already there. He’s particularly attached to that one.”

Liv wonders why it's any more ridiculous to her that someone would own _multiple_ bows.

Natasha hauls Clint into the back seat, pulling his seat belt over and clipping it in like you would for a three-year-old. It's oddly sweet.

Liv’s still struggling to contain her urge to give directions to the local A&E she’s already seen enough of Clint's cavalier attitude to injury to know she'll probably go ignored. She stops worrying when Natasha produces a first aid kit from some hidden compartment and prepares a shot of what looks like anesthetic with practiced movements and a long-suffering air. Liv sympathies: she's had more than a few problematic people.

 “You're secretly having kittens over him, aren't you?” Natasha stares at her for a moment, not confused or surprised, but quietly judging like a big cat.

It's like she's trying to decide how honest to be, with Liv and with herself. She's silent for a long time, and Liv thinks that, if she were anyone else, she'd be telegraphing the kind of emotional rollercoaster that you unavoidably disembark from with numb legs and a churning stomach.

Eventually she looks back at the mussed and boneless Clint, who's admittedly looking quite lovable right now, despite it all, and her face breaks into a tender half smile.

 “Always.” Liv feels a little honoured to have witnessed the moment, and utterly bewildered because of it. The redhead seems to break out of her reverie, the softness she'd exhibited while tending to Clint melting away, her expression smoothly inscrutable once more.

 “We would appreciate your transgression-”  Liv interrupts her with an airily waved hand.

 “I know the drill, believe me.” Natasha raises an eyebrow, but nods, closing the car door on Clint and going to climb in herself.

 “Will he-” Natasha turns back to her, waiting patiently for Liv’s tongue to work its way around her new found concern for this hopelessly stubborn man, who’d turned out to be one of the most endearing people to ever wander into her shop, even with what’s most likely a serious concussion. “Will he be okay?”

Natasha’s gaze softens, and she steps up to her again to place a reassuring hand on one of Liv’s tightly crossed arms.

 “I'm sure of it.”

Liv inclines her head, as carefully controlled as she can manage, and Natasha walks away after a final squeeze to her arm. She retreats back into the shop, listening at the car quietly starts and slips away.

She tries not to feel too sad about it.

 

It's just under two weeks later when her mobile rings as she's refilling the grinder, and she gratefully drops the bag of coffee beans (it's more of a sack, really) onto a nearby counter before answering.

 “Hi?”

 “ _Olivia Marshall?_ ”

 “Liv.” If that's who she thinks it is…

 “ _This is Clint Barton I was the-_ ”

 “I remember.”

 “ _'Course you do. I'm unforgettable._ ”

 “Completely.” Liv doesn't think her voice has ever been drier in her life. She's actually quite proud. “So, how can I help you?”

 “ _Right, yeah. I bought my wife an espresso machine for our anniversary-_ ”

 “I'm not sure if I'm more surprised that someone married you or that you remembered the anniversary.”

 “ _I_ _'m offended. I'm great with dates._ ”

 “I'm sure Natasha only looked on approvingly from the sidelines.”

 “ _Yeah, well, anyway, back to what I was actually calling about, before you started attacking my relationship skills._ ”

 “Relationship skills?”

 “ _Stop._ ”

 “Fine, fine.” She's grinning like a loon.

 “ _Thank you. So, I'm trying to set up the machine by tomorrow, and don't get the wrong idea, if I had more time-_ ” Liv bursts out into totally incredulous laughter.

 “You have no idea what you're doing, do you? You can't work a coffee machine, and instead of checking the instructions or even Google, you call the barista you met weeks ago. You didn't even get to taste my coffee before you passed out on the counter.”

 “ _I was going to call anyway, to thank you, but then this emergency came up. Who knows, do a good job his time, you'll be my go to contact for coffee related inquiries._ ”

 “You get many of those?”

 “ _Happens more often than you'd think._ ” Liv sighs and starts nervous tapping a rhythm on the counter top. She’s still a bit shocked that this conversation is even happening.

 “You barely know me.” She feels like it's a point that needs to be made. Clint sighs, and it sounds oddly tinny over the phone.

 “ _l make a point to thank all the life-savers I encounter. And listen, I may have been fairly out of it last time-_ ”

 “You were a mess.” He laughs.

 “ _Stop sounding like Nat, I get enough nagging from her. But really, I may have been a mess, sure, but I'm a pretty good judge of character, and Nat likes you too. Which is unusual. In a good way. Not many people can roll with the punches like you did._ _Stark would like you, SI always needs new staff…_ ” He trails off, considering. Liv is just trying to process the insanity. Did he just offer her a job? As a barista. With Stark Industries?

 “I live in London.” Liv points out. He's probably joking. Probably.

 “ _We’ll work out the kinks later. First thing’s first, what’s this curly b- Oh._ ” There's an ominous crunching sound. “ _Oops?_ ”

Liv sighs.

 

And that's not quite the beginning of their epic friendship, but it's 'round about the start.

 

(It really sets the ball rolling when she gets another call three days later, and immediately has Tony Stark talking a mile a minute in her ear.

 “ _So you're the barista that single-handedly succeeded where many heroic, righteous and hideously boring SHIELD tributes have failed. You impressed Romanov and denied a concussed but still conscious Barton caffeine. If you took pictures, I'd like you already._ ”

 “Of who?”

 “ _Either. If you managed both, all the kudos and brownie points._ ”

 “Sadly, I didn't. But I did learn how to make the best Irish coffee in Dublin.”

 “ _You're hired._ ”)

 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are always appreciated, thank you muchly.


End file.
